


Sources of Strength

by LylaRivers



Series: The One Who Blesses [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), M/M, Raphael!Crowley, soft celestials being soft, the author has chronic pain and is jewish, this demon can fit so much projection in him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 13:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20174725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly maudlin, he lets himself appreciate the irony. Raphael, the healer, who can heal others, but never himself.





	Sources of Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Working title was: *pats demon* this baby can fit so much self projection in him. Shoutout to the AceOmens discord server for being supportive in this. I’ve never written an entire fic in less than 24 hours, but here we are. 
> 
> Just a note, “” is for English, <> indicates speaking in Hebrew.

Thick soled shoes, bought for this express purpose? Check. Thick, dark jeans to protect him from the seat? Check. Sunglasses to hide his eyes? Always.  _ Tallit _ , with just a few incorrect knots so it doesn't burn him? Check. 

Thus armed and garbed, Crowley enters the synagogue. It always burns, a little- but there’s just not much that can top his usual pain, so he ignores it. That’s what the thick boots are for, anyways. It’s worth that extra prickle for the sense of warmth and community, the comfort of a familiar language. 

If he concentrates on the words around him, on the belief and warmth, he can ignore the fire that courses through him, at least for a while. 

At least, he can ignore it, until after Seder Kriat HaTorah, when the congregation offers up prayers for healing. 

The rabbi asks for names of those in need of healing. He never offers his own name. Instead, he listens for the names around him, makes a point to remember who is hurting, who needs help. That will be for later. 

“ _ Mi shebeirach, avoteinu, michor habracha, l’eimoteinu _ , May the Source of Strength, who blessed the ones before us, help us find the courage to make our lives a blessing, and let us say, Amen,” the congregation sings together. 

He doesn’t sing. He rarely does. It burns his mouth, to utter holy names. It burns less, if he substitutes  _ Hashem _ for  _ Adonai _ . But it still burns. 

“ _ Mi shebeirach, eimoteinu, michor habracha, l’avoteinu _ , Bless those in need of healing, with  _ refuah shlema _ , A renewal of body, a renewal of spirit, and let us say, Amen.”

As it usually does, the oblique reference to his Name sparks a tear or two, hidden behind his sunglasses.  _ Refuah shlema _ . A complete healing. 

Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly maudlin, he lets himself appreciate the irony. Raphael, the healer, who can heal others, but never himself. 

It hurts in a way he never expected. Not Falling- Crowley expected that to hurt. Wings burning, no way to stop, every inch of Grace he once had burned away, an absence of Love. But every day, he wakes up, and his body screams at him. Punishment for being the Serpent? A cruel irony, of what he once was? He’s never sure. 

But whatever it is, it saps his strength, every day. He’s never, not in six thousand years, told anyone. Some days, he just wants to break, to tell Aziraphale, to give this awful knowledge and responsibility to someone else. 

He never does. This is his burden, and his alone. His cross to bear, as it were. 

He always leaves, just before the Mourner’s Kaddish. It feels wrong, to be in this room, with people asking for comfort after a death. He knows what happens to souls after death. 

There’s far less comfort in knowing. In the certainty. 

He speeds off to Aziraphale’s bookshop, instead. It’s the closest he can get to flying, these days. It hurts too much to pull his wings out, to flap them through the sky. When he does try to fly, he aches for days after. In the Bentley, he can sit comfortably and floor it- the speed and the rush, without the pain. And it gives him just a little joy, in being able to do something Aziraphale can’t, or won’t. To hear his little gasps of horror as the demon darts around pedestrians and slower traffic. 

It isn’t much, but it’s what he has. 

Predictably, the bookshop is closed. Crowley doesn't bother knocking, and miracles the door open. He swaggers in, letting the wince in his walk translate into the sway. “Hey angel,” he calls out, letting the door slam shut behind him. 

The angel looks up from his book, tea mug clutches in one hand. “Crowley, my dear!” Aziraphale replies. He genuinely radiates delight from every pore in his corporation. “Is it lunchtime already?”

“Nah, I just woke up a bit earlier than usual,” Crowley lies. He doesn’t mention the synagogue. He never does. 

Some days, it feels like he’s made of secrets. His true Name. The pain. The synagogue. The true miracles- the healing- he does whenever he can get away with it. 

If he has even one more secret, he sometimes fears he’ll burst. 

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asks, putting down his tea, and coming to stand in front of him. “You look a bit… well, off.”

“Just fine,” Crowley grits out- and then, because the universe hates him, his body betrays him and he collapses. 

***

He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, cushioned by a truly hideous tartan blanket and several pillows. “Oh good, you’re awake,” Aziraphale fusses. “Crowley, what on  _ Earth _ happened? You just collapsed, with no warning. One moment, you looked a bit pale, the next…”

He’s too tired to lie, anymore. “Probably the residual effects of hallowed ground atop the usual pain,” he grits out. 

The angel’s ever-fidgeting hands still. “What?”

“The  _ pain _ , angel,” Crowley drawls. It’s out there now, in the open. “The ever present, blessed pain that wracks my body every time I move. ‘S why I go to the synagogue, sssometimesss.” 

“You go to a synagogue… because you're in pain,” Aziraphale parrots blankly. 

“Where else am I going to hear my native language, these days?”

“You go to a synagogue just to hear Hebrew?” Aziraphale asks. His face has scrunched up in confusion. <But my dear, you could have just asked,> he says, and Crowley realizes he’s switched languages. 

<It’s easier to understand, when it hurts,> Crowley replies. 

Aziraphale sits on the side of the bed, next to him. <My dear, why didn’t you tell me?>

<I didn’t want to burden you.>

“My dear boy, never!” Aziraphale gasps, so surprised he switches back to English. <I could have helped you! I had no idea.>

<There’s no help for me,> Crowley snaps. <By this point I know. There’s no hope for  _ healing _ .> And with that word, healing-  _ refuah-  _ the tears spill forth. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale mutters. He rests one hand in Crowley’s hair, and starts to stroke gently. <Crowley, I can…>

<Don’t call me that. Not like this,> Crowley snaps. If hearing words derived from his Name in his native language hurt, it’s nothing compared to his demon name transliterated into Hebrew. 

<Tell me,> Aziraphale commands, his voice unbearably gentle. His hands never stop caressing Crowley’s hair. 

“I can’t… I can’t even say my own Name, but so many words are derived from it,” Crowley babbles, unable to make the words right in Hebrew. “But it’s so much worse to hear a different name, with the same cadence and the inflection and…” He can’t make himself go on. 

“Your Name? From before?” Aziraphale asks. 

“ _ Terefuah. Refuah.  _ Uhh…  _ rofeh _ ,” Crowley whispers. Medicine. Healing. Doctor. He hopes-  _ prays _ \- that Aziraphale understands. 

“ _ Raphael _ ?” Aziraphale asks, as quick on the uptake as ever. “You… Fell? But the logs of miracles have been showing your Name still for… well, ever. I heard Gabriel and Michael arguing about it, once. But it didn’t make any sense.”

“My Name?” Crowley asks, blankly. 

<Well, I haven’t seen it myself,> Aziraphale says quickly. <But I heard Michael say once that seeing the Name Raphael shouldn’t be possible. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. But she’s right. How have you still been doing miracles?> 

<I just do,> Crowley mutters. <I didn’t know Heaven was still logging them.> 

<I haven’t the foggiest idea how,> Aziraphale says, and Crowley wants to laugh. Even speaking Hebrew, his first language, somehow Aziraphale manages to be so  _ British _ . 

It hurts to laugh. “I suppose you could say it’s… ineffable?” Crowley asks, unable to translate all the words back to Hebrew. 

Aziraphale chuckles softly. “I suppose it is, at that. Is there anything I can do? To help with the pain?”

“D’you have a heating pad?”

“I could get you one,” Aziraphale offers. “Or… I’ve been told that angels are rather warm. But only if you want…”

“Get over here,” Crowley demands. Very carefully, Aziraphale climbs onto the bed next to him. It’s as if a space heater has moved in. Crowley arrays himself, loose limbed, over the angel. All the heat provides some respite from the dull thud of pain.  _ Why did I never think of this before?  _ Crowley thinks, almost giddy with the relief of a fully warm body. Even his high end, large and expensive heated blanket has nothing on this. 

“How’s that, then?” Aziraphale asks. 

It takes every ounce of willpower in Crowley’s body not to moan in pleasure and out him, then and there. “‘s nice,” he says instead.  _ This _ is why he’s never thought to do this. Being so close to the angel erodes what little willpower he has. 

He’s never told Aziraphale how he feels. Maybe he should, now that they really are on their own side. But even now, it might shatter their fragile, post Appoco-nope peace. Their new accord. Their new… Arrangement. 

But he wants. 

“Get some rest, you silly serpent,” Aziraphale says. Lulled into a sense of calm, Crowley lets his eyes flicker shut. He’s calm, but not quite drowsy, when he feels something soft pressed against his forehead. 

He forces himself not to move.  _ Those were Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale just kissed his forehead _ . 

It’s a long time before he falls asleep. 

***

He awakes, unsure of the time. Aziraphale is still curled under him, one hand carding through his hair. The other hand has propped up a book that the angel is reading through slowly. 

“‘Zira?” Crowley mumbles. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Aziraphale says brightly. He closes the book and places it on a table on the other side of the bed. 

“How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours,” Aziraphale reassures him. 

Crowley considers. If he was to just come out and say it… but Aziraphale has already taken in so much information today. So many of his secrets have been laid bare.  _ It can’t be that bad _ , his traitor mind whispers.  _ He’s already proved willing to play host to your pain. He kissed your forehead. What better sign do you want? _

_ But what if I ruin it? I ruined everything else, _ the other half of his mind argues.  _ I can’t do my job properly- either one, for that matter! One foot in Hell, apparently one foot still in Heaven. I can’t drag Aziraphale down with me!  _

_ You already have _ , the first half insists.  _ You’re on your own side _ . 

“Crowley, my dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, breaking into his silent war. “You’re very quiet.”

He could lie. But as a rule, he doesn’t lie to Aziraphale. Not lies of commission. “I was thinking… about earlier,” he says slowly. 

“About earlier?” 

“When I was falling asleep. You kissed me. My forehead.” 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale dithers. “Oh, I know I shouldn’t have, but you looked so  _ reduced _ , and so miserable, and I thought you were asleep, and I’m so very sorry, but I just couldn’t…”

“Do it again?” Crowley asks, very quietly. 

“Oh!” With gentle fingers, Aziraphale tilts Crowley’s head towards him, and closes the gap between their faces. Aziraphale’s lips, like the rest of him, are soft and warm. 

Neither of them need to breathe, but they break apart gasping for air. Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s face with his hands. It feels too soft.  _ Demons don’t do soft _ . 

“I always thought your eyes were so beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, thumbs tracing his cheekbones up to the corners of his eyes. “Absolutely stunning. Rather like the demon attached to them.”

Something clenches, deep in Crowley’s chest. “Aziraphale…”

“No. Whatever self-deprecating thing you’re going to say, don’t,” Aziraphale says, cutting him off. “I won’t stand for that. You are beautiful, and nice, and deserving of wonderful things. I’m so sorry I never saw how badly you hurt, every day. I won’t let myself be blind again.”

“Angel, I didn’t want you to see.”

“Don’t hide from me like that, please,” Aziraphale begs. “Please. Let me help. I want to help. Promise me.”

They’re on their own side. “I promise,” Crowley assents. 

They seal the promise with another kiss. 

***** 

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary  
Tallit: prayer shawl with fringes on the 4 corners which represent the 613 commandments.  
Rabbi: leader of the congregation, literally means ‘great’  
Seder Kriat HaTorah: service (literally order) for the Torah reading  
Kaddish: the prayer for the dead, literally means holiness
> 
> Raphael literally means “G-d heals”. Modern words for doctor, medicine, and healing are all derived from the root letters reish, fey, aleph, which means to heal.


End file.
